


Strokes of Crimson

by Sleepless_Malice



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alchemy, Blood, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Bloodplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Chemical Torture, Cutting, Gen, Graphic Description, Knifeplay, Knives, M/M, Torture, Violence, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Annatar likes to paint, but not with ordinary artist's colors. His medium of choice is blood and other bodily fluids, using naked skin as canvas; and now, he is his own master and can do with his captives as he pleases. This is a sick and disturbing snippet of Celebrimbor's suffering in Annatar's hands shortly after his capture and before his death.</b>
  <br/>
  <i>Heed the warnings - this is no happy or fluffy fic (but includes an edit and a fanmix)</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strokes of Crimson

**Author's Note:**

> **[Inspiration]** The original idea for this fic came one day late at night whilst listening to one of my favorite bands, 'Eisregen', and their song 'Wundwasser' - and the lyrics together with Silverfisting as ship simply would not leave me anymore, so here we are, and therefore the title of this story. In this song, they basically use body fluids as artist's paint and the body as canvas. The lyrics are originally in German, I translated some parts into English and used it throughout this fic. Additionally, Sins of Our Fathers, theeventualwinner's most wonderful fic of Celebrimbor and Annatar was certainly a major inspiration for this little story, especially the alchemy part – I love this work of art to pieces. [Sins of Our Fathers @ AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2886527/chapters/6442451)
> 
>  **[Music]** \- Apart from the fanmix I have made (see below), here is the Eisregen song I was speaking of, with English translations if anybody should be curious. [Eisregen - Wundwasser](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uQYMCjLYsfE)
> 
>  **[Disclaimer]** \- The elf and the Maia are (unfortunately) not mine. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien and Tolkien Estate – I just like to explore their lives a little further. No money is made from this story.
> 
>  **[Beta]** \- Thank you so so much, [OohLaGalion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/OohLaGalion/pseuds/OohLaGalion) for beta-reading this story. <3
> 
>  **[General]** \- Feel free to contact me on tumblr: [feanope](http://www.feanope.tumblr.com)
> 
>  **[Art-Credit]** \- The art in the second edit was used with the permission of [kusuri2013](http://www.kusuri2013.tumblr.com); The original image can be found [ here ](http://kusuri2013.tumblr.com/post/88773935251/i-survived-first-age-beleriand-week-614)

**For[markedasinfernal](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com) \- HAPPY BIRTHDAY**

*****

**Bloody Pleasures - A Silverfisting Fanmix[ Listen @ 8tracks](http://8tracks.com/sleepless_malice/bloody-pleasures-a-silverfisting-fanmix)**

 

 

 

**STROKES OF CRIMSON**

*****

_Mit jedem Atemzug beginnt mein Bild zu leben,_

_Dein Herz schlägt deutlich schwächer, hat kaum mehr was zu geben.  
_

_Ich hab dich infiziert mit Krankheit großer Zahl,  
_

_Wird ihre eigne Farbe; Kunst ist die Summe deiner Qual.  
_

Eisregen - Wundwasser

 

* * *

 

 He does not know how many moons have waxed and waned since he was first brought there, somewhere dark, a hard surface beneath him. He is cold, so utterly cold, and then he finds himself sweating at the same time, until his soiled clothes are wet and clinging to his body — only moments later he finds himself shivering again, can feel his teeth chattering from the bitter cold that slowly creeps through his exhausted body. He can feel dried blood matting his hair, turning the once shiny charcoal strands into a filthy mess.

It is not the ferociously burning pain in his back, the constant ache of his limbs and shoulders that startles him from his restless dreams of burning forests and screaming elves, images of the battlefields where he has fought for glory and survival alike, but the rasping voices of the foul creatures serving the one he once had called a friend. Gorge begins to rise in his throat, burning and bitter, and he retches, nearly emptying his empty stomach onto the tiles.

Several of them enter the dimly lit room at once, and before he finds himself able to spring to his feet, a violent blow is delivered across his face, followed by a kick to his guts by a different orc; desperately he struggles to escape their cold hands but they are too many, and he is cornered.

“Stop this madness,” he shouts as one of them begins to touch him, slapping the ugly hand away with all the strength he can summon, but another blow makes him grow silent for a moment.

“Orders from the master,” snarls the orc in response, with such indifference that it makes the blood freeze in his veins; his hands are tied securely behind his back, making him such an easy target that he despises himself for it.

A final kick to his stomach, and then another — and then they are gone, and bleak darkness embraces him.

 

* * *

****

**_First encounter_ **

All sense of time is lost to him in the cold twilight grave deep down below the earth, for a grave Celebrimbor is certain it will soon become; gloomily the filtered light cascades into the room, cold as the air outside is as a white blanket of snow and ice covers the lands. A repulsive mélange of body odors, mildew and coagulated blood has formed a numbing stench over the many days, truly ill-befitting for his rank and status. His hair, once black and shining as the obsidian tiles in his forge, is adorned with greasy knots and splatters of dried blood, his fingers swollen and lips blistered from dehydration. From time to time a mocking voice seems to call through the small opening of the door. He doesn’t answer, not once. He is never certain if the voice is there or not.

It is not the ferociously burning pain deep within his stomach, nor the fulminous hunger that makes his innards cringe, that wakes him from his restless dreams of burnt forests, battles that were fought long ago, but all of a sudden become as vivid as if he were caught right in the middle of them; with the clashing of swords his father’s stern voice mingles, advising him, scolding him, his expectantly burning gaze resting upon him.

Celebrimbor forces his blood-swollen eyes open, blinking into the smothering darkness, upon the coldness that creeps through the thick stone walls he shivers, upon the apprehension, too. With a groan he lifts his abused body upwards; everything hurts — his limbs, his arms, his back — and nausea overwhelms him anew, provoked by the rotten smell in the air. The stench burns sharply in his nostrils now that he is awake, acrid and so horrendously thick in its richness, so…but his train of thought is interrupted when the heavy iron door flies open, and the Maia comes to a sudden halt with three of his corrupted minions trailing behind him.

Black he wears now, Celebrimbor notices, whilst he was clad in such innocent white all the years before, and with reluctance he admits the dark colors in which he is clad suit him even better, the golden hair in which the glow of the torch is caught highlighted against the veil of darkness. He stands before him clad in black robe adorned with golden embroidery on its sleeves and collar, woven threads of pure gold. Underneath he wears simple breeches and heavy boots of deerskin, fastened with golden buckles. None of these garments has Celebrimbor ever seen before, but it matters not as soon his gaze falls onto the golden ring on the Maia’s finger, the ring that glows so ethereally in the smoldering darkness.

“My humble greetings,” the Maia croons with a malicious smirk, repeating the words Celebrimbor once had said in honest interest, “I truly hope you have enjoyed the amenities these halls have to offer.”

He wishes to spring onto his feet and leap at Annatar’s throat, but even the slightest movement elicits a myriad of pain: his arms, his limbs, his stomach — damaged and broken, numb and unwilling to follow his minds’ command. Weak he has become over the many days, suffering from dehydration and starvation, because he has not been granted food.

“Now, now, there is no reason to be shy — would you not agree, Celebrimbor? After all, we are friends — and allies, or have you changed your mind about this matter?” Closer towards his cowering form the Maia steps, looming above him, and amidst the hatred he sees something else flicker in those auric eyes, a glimpse of such malicious pleasure that the blood in his veins freezes. With a fey laugh Annatar extents his hand towards him, as if he wishes to help him stand up, but with all strength he can muster, Celebrimbor slaps away the arm.

“Oh Tyelpe, please — a gesture of help between friends should not be so easily dismissed.”

 _‘Between friends.’_ The words sting with such violence, because once he had called the other a friend, long before the Maia had betrayed and deceived him, lead his people to their downfall. In words he cannot understand Annatar shouts orders to his waiting slaves, and within the blink of an eye the three vile creatures leap upon him, their scarred hands touching him, groping him, and despite his futile struggle they drag him onto his trembling feet. Fight he does, and so does he scream and curse, but whatever he does is done in vain. With quick motions they drag him to the middle of the dim room, and from nowhere heavy chains of irons rattle and spring into his vision; he should have known that precautions would have been taken by Annatar, whose divine cruelty was the true mastery of his corrupted mind.

 _‘Without fear you shall be when you face your enemies,’_ Maglor had once said, in a voice that as soft like as a summer breeze dancing through his charcoal hair — during Maedhros’ captivity, Celebrimbor remembers as memory the unfurls and the words ring in his ears as if they were spoken only yesterday, _‘brave and upright, no matter at what cost it comes; the world is nothing more than a grand board game for the gods to play — our fates were set long before the world we live in was made, and do not believe it is not like this. No matter if you think you can alter your fate, by whatever deed is asked of you, know that you cannot — all you shall ever accomplish with such behavior is to condemn others to your own fate. Do not despair, Celebrimbor, but remember my words in days of darkness, when lies are uttered to woo you in false security.’_

With such accuracy everything his uncle had said falls into place at once, and he gasps in realization; easily he could betray his allies and give away the secrets of the ring’s abodes, believing the Maia’s vile promises — but what would it change in the end? Nothing! With determination his mind is set. Never shall he betray the ones who have warned him, advised him not to trust the one who named himself ‘Lord of Gifts’ — those whom he gifted the rings he once had made in secret, hidden from the Maia’s auric eyes.

The thoughts spur his own defiance, and he writhes and tosses against the creatures, tries to bite down with his teeth;no matter how much Celebrimbor struggles against the Maia’s minions, three pairs of calloused hands hold him firmly in place, and soon his wrists and ankles are forced into the cold embrace of iron manacles which are connected with the heavy chains. Briefly, his gaze flickers towards the Maia who stands nearby with arms crossed over his chest, and bile rises in his throat at what he sees: a smirk of apprehension tugs at the corner of well-curved lips, and he whistles a jaunty tune through his teeth, a dreadful mockery of his own misery.

A wave of agony rips across his face, and he inhales shakily when the last shackle clicks shut around his ankle; despite the coldness of the metal it burns so mockingly against his skin as if a thousand tiny fires lived within the lifeless material, and Celebrimbor cannot help but wonder what malice the Maia has woven into it. His breath quickens of its own accord, and the iron chains are pulled cruelly, and with every tiny inch his extremities follow the command of the rattling iron. His arms ache and soon his limbs, too, pulled tight by the heavy restraints, which now wrench his arms and legs wide apart. He remains silent apart from the whines that slip past his lips, accepting what he has suspected from the beginning, although he wishes to scream when cold claws strip him off the filthy remains of his tunics with a fey laugh, as if his position was not humiliating enough.

“Such pale flesh,” the creature says in sick admiration to its companion, when coldness embraces his exposed torso, and in the distance he hears the Maia snicker, malicious and cruel. Celebrimbor barely lifts his head then to catch a glimpse of his worst enemy disguised in the fair form of his own kin.

With utter grace Annatar discards the black cloak adorned with dark furs from his shoulders, and in accord with the iron chains the wind shrieks and rattles outside in a feral howl.

“Be gone,” snarls Annatar at his minions, who all turn on their heels, except for one who hesitates for a moment, his hands twitching nervously as if he is unsure what to do. “ALL of you,” Annatar thunders in such a manner that the orc flinches visibly upon the icy words, “or you will be next to face such punishment,” and hurriedly the creature follows its companions through the endless corridor, their padding footsteps diminishing with every second that passes. Now a heavy silence falls between them like the snowflakes outside — cold and deadly, and all Celebrimbor hears is his heartbeat against his ribcage, and slowly he begins to comprehend with fearful knowledge; this is Annatar’s perverted game, and his alone, and all too easily he can fathom why he has come deep down beneath the ground. His wrists are still wrenched taught to either side, dangling high above his head in the enshrouding darkness, the shackles’ grasp so tightly that his fingers are already going numb.

“Beautiful,” says Annatar with horrid appreciation as his gaze travels along his captive’s exposed body, as if his skin is a precious tapestry to be admired, and then swiftly he strides closer, and closer still; and indeed Celebrimbor has to force himself not to flinch away at the resentment that glimmers in those auric eyes, and against his will he finds himself under the scrutiny of his tormenter’s full attention. The Maia grabs his chin tightly, and fingertips dig into his skin so hard that Celebrimbor is certain bruises will soon spring to life.

“Where are they?” inquires Annatar through gritted teeth, “tell me now and spare yourself the anguish. Tell me now, and you shall walk out this door unharmed.”

A lie, a filthy lie — nothing less, nothing more, Celebrimbor tells himself. Lies sown in desperation, and he bites down his lower lip with such force that soon the metallic taste of blood tickles his tongue. All too often the promised heaven has become hell for him instead, and not a word shall he ever tell him. They are safe now, far away from this corrupted place — and Annatar must never know!

“No? Oh Tyelpe, such a foolish decision,” he says with pitiful resentment, shaking his head in dismay before he delicately quirks his eyebrows, and his expression hardens. “Never doubt that I have methods to extract your little secrets.”

Of this, Celebrimbor has no doubts — he never did.

Brutal affirmation comes as a steel-tipped riding boot that kicks him hard against the legs to force them wider apart, and whilst pain sings along every nerve of his body, his vision blurs and his eyelids flutter, and when next he looks his gaze falls onto a shining dagger, glowing gold in the dim light of the torches. With amusement Annatar watches his expression transforms into one of fear – and then he laughs, as the blade carves the skin above his kidney. Celebrimbor bites back a sharp cry of agony as he feels his muscles shift under the vicious assault, and the howl dies in his throat, unuttered. This is exactly what Annatar wants, and with narrowed eyes he watches him, staring at him.

Seeing that he has his attention, the Maia runs his tongue carefully along the shimmering blade, licking away the scarlet stains at its edges; and despite the obscenity of it, he finds himself reveling in Annatar’s beauty, his hair cascading down over his shoulders like molten gold, eyes of the same color staring at him with such strange fascination and detachment. Celebrimbor glares at him, all the more when Annatar’s delighted smirk meets his own gaze. Such dreadful mockery, he thinks, as they had worked on the magnificent dagger together for many hours in the forge, until it had the perfect balance, the perfect blade; countless rubies adorned the hilt, rubies which so closely resembled the droplets of his own blood. The blade flashes in the gleam of light, dangerous, spellbinding, and the shining blaze breaks the screaming rut of thoughts in his head for a moment, as all too well he knows what awaits him.

And he is not mistaken. As if the thin line of red drops were not enough, the Maia lines up the blade again, this time against his chest. With brief delay, pain sings along his nerves as his skin splices beneath his drowsy gaze, and such cruel laughter echoes in his ears that momentarily his piercing shrieks are drowned. New patterns begin to blossom across his arms, spring so vividly to life in the Maia’s ardor and a sinuous line weaves now along his left collarbone, and he howls anew. In the wake of the blade, the Maia’s blood-stained fingertips follow; they wallow in the curve of his stretched arms, digging deeply into the wounds the knife has left behind, and the touch is so intimate that Celebrimbor’s helpless form trembles against the iron chains.

A final cut along his throat, right beside the pulsating vein, and then it is done, and carelessly Annatar throws the knife onto the floor. Briefly, hope warms his heart that the Maia’s gruesome artwork is accomplished when he marvels at the beauty of his ivory skin painted with crimson stains, but oh how mistaken he is. A step closer he takes toward the panting elf, and vile fingers begin to follow the patterns that now live in his skin, engraved into his flesh and throbbing with such burning heat, that Celebrimbor closes his eyes to avoid the obscene display beneath him. Countless hours during the darkness of night he has spent imaging the Maia’s long fingers trace along every inch of his skin, exploring, demanding, and form time to time his dreams became reality. Amidst the pain, memory stirs and now he remembers, maddeningly so, every word Annatar said whilst his auric eyes flickered in the faint torchlight, every touch he had bestowed upon his skin, words which had been so foreboding but he was too blind too see; mingled figments of love, longing and desperation he has chased, caught in the endless maelstrom of issues he has never reappraised.

The scent of anise he is so familiar with, the plant which grows so abundantly along the distant shores fills his nose, accompanied by the smell of evaporating alcohol and something else, something he could not fathom to distinguish — something slightly acidic mingling with the subtle yet unhealthy note of metal, and his eyes flicker open. It is a scent he is somewhat familiar with from the experimentation room of the forge, but then it is as if he had never smelled anything alike before. Whilst the warm aroma of the anise soothes him, the rest makes him shudder — all too familiar is he with the Maia’s strangely working mind.

“Iodine,” Annatar explains with such nonchalance that Celebrimbor gasps before the first droplet spills onto the marred skin of his back; he is breathless, shuddering beneath his touch as he runs his finger along the cut, following the curve of his spine. The Maia hisses in disdain: “It burns so wonderfully as it seeps into your skin. Do you not think so?”  

The Maia does not break his skin wantonly, instead he lets the blade run intricately against his nerves, painting a gruesome work of blood and flesh onto his back; the blade runs over already existing cuts once more, and he strains against the heavy chains that hold him securely fasted, long straight lines running crisscross over his once ivory skin. He cannot see Annatar, and he is partly glad he can’t, but nevertheless he feels his burning gaze upon him, gleefully admiring his disgusting artwork.

A pain knots in his chest, tightening and burning up his throat when a generous amount of liquid hits his skin anew, and he stumbles within his bonds — as much as the restraints allow it — and fey the Maia’s laughter echoes in his ears when another row of drops spill down on the countless cuts. Celebrimbor finds himself caught in a maelstrom of cruelty where distant memories of pleasant laughter, words and warmth mingle, those figments of illusions he stupidly spinner together in his head, the head which now hangs heavily against his chest, sweaty and sticky. Ghost-like fingers brush over the blossoming bruises on his chest and arms, so delicately that a silent gasp slips through his lips. With a shiver he remembers the gruesome cruelty, the hard slap across his face that robbed him of his teeth, the savagery of emptiness when the ghosting fingertips were gone for once.

Suspiciously then Celebrimbor lifts his head, and pain flares behind his eyes. There is something in the Maia’s behavior, something he cannot comprehend, not yet at least. A coy smile forms on Annatar's lips, and he nearly jumps away from him in such a surge of delight the likes of which the elf had not seen in many a day, and threads of apprehension stir within him, although the thought of release idly floats through his mind when Annatar turns around and lowers his body. Oh how he hates — despises —himself for it, for still admiring the perfect view that greets his eyes, despite the torture, despite the cruelness bestowed upon him; the taut muscles flexing beneath the leather breeches make him stare, the golden hair softly falling across his back all the more. 

For the briefest of moments, in an instant between light and dark, between sleep and wakefulness — the moment when Celebrimbor’s hazy eyes fall close, he hears the Maia breathing next to him, slow and steady. Often had he heard it before — a sound which easily could lull him into deepest slumber, especially now, that dizziness sheer seems to overwhelm him with cries of mingled pain and pleasure entwined in the threads of slumber. He is sliding, floating as sleep takes over, yet there is Annular again in his dreams, light once more, ethereally gleaming in the soft glow of the torches, an illusion he cannot fathom. The Maia is everything — and nothing; all he had ever wanted, yet so strangely surreal, although the fingers which had tightened in his dark locks had been so real moments ago, the tracing of sharp nails against his back. Slowly, the pale moonlight gives way to the brightness of the sun, breaking through the lulling haze of darkness, and deep inside he already knows that all his hopes are sown in vein, but even then he cannot escape his magical aura; unhealthily he wants him, wants to possess him — had perhaps always wanted him, ever since the Maia had stepped inside the great hall of Eregion.

Metal rattles against metal, and glass scatters across the floor, and Celebrimbor’s eyelids flash open although most is hidden from his sight, but his gaze follows the motion of Annatar’s hands in wonder nevertheless.

A smile of triumph flashes across the Maia’s features when he rises and turns around again, and such hateful glee glitters through the auric eyes, when his gaze switches back and forth between his hand and Celebrimbor’s oppressed torso. Catlike his movements are, soundless and malicious as he steps closer yet again towards his captive, and at once he narrows his eyes in response, trying to decipher what the sealed flask in the Maia’s hand could contain — a colorless liquid, in a flask like so many that stand around the forge, containing wispy flakes of precious metals, solvents for different purposes, and other alchemical witchery the Maia had collected over the years, but easily his attention diverts when his exhausted gaze falls onto the syringe in Annatar’s hand, and then onto those gleaming eyes; delicately he raises an eyebrow and a nauseating smile plays upon his lips. “A truly marvelous compound, wondrous on so many levels,” the Maia says deviously, “You have always wondered what I was working on late at night, and now I will tell you: fire made liquid. Doesn’t it sound intriguing?”

Celebrimbor gulps. Certainly no such thing exists, and with strange fascination he stares when Annatar draws up the liquid into the syringe with such care that he nearly begins to believe the foul lies; for a brief moment the world around them seems to pause, with both their eyes fixed on the fuming tip of the needle; a heavy tranquility wafts through the dimly lit room, a silence which is all too soon disrupted in the moment the first splash of liquid splutters across Celebrimbor’s chest, the seemingly innocent droplets igniting themselves as if reigned by fire, burning vividly on his skin. A howling shriek spills from his lips with such agony and frustration that Annatar pauses for a second. Not a word did he believe that the arrogant Maia spoke, and bitterly he pays for it now as the distraction lasts only a short time. Swiftly, he takes a step closer towards his captive until he looms above him, and with a devious grin he allows the remaining liquid to trickle down Celebrimbor’s chest, the liquid sizzling and fuming before it ignites itself, until seemingly his entire body is ablaze with little fires, and delightfully the Maia laughs at every wound the flames leave behind. Desperately he finds himself struggling to get control of his breath upon the pain the torment inflicts upon him, fighting against his fëa’s attempt to block out the malicious pain through loss of consciousness; such openly displayed weakness would not go unpunished, he knows it with such bitter certainty that it sends him trembling. Weakness will only provoke yet another devious reaction, and he wonders how much more he can take.

And then so tenderly Annatar brushes his long fingers against his swollen cheeks, exactly like he did so rarely in the darkest hours of the night, with only the pale moon as their witness. Once Celebrimbor had tasted the forbidden, he found himself yearning for it, and how he misses it: the transcendent state of euphoria, the seductive mélange of flying and floating in endless heights he never knew before in a strange detachment from the world.

Momentarily his mind goes astray, and he already hates himself for such ridiculous thoughts, yet he cannot help them as undesired they spring free from their cage, and in the brief moment of mental absence the Maia raises his knee to violently kick him in his stomach until he screams and howls in pain. _Penance for my sins._ The thought flashes through Celebrimbor’s mind. Such vile and abhorrent desires as he has succumbed to shall not go unpunished.

“Oh how wonderfully I still can make you scream. Nevertheless, I have to admit that I grow tired of your desperation.” Glee shines in the Maia’s eyes as he holds an iron gag right before him, and upon the recognition in the elf’s eyes his malicious smirk grows, until it becomes nearly unbearable to Celebrimbor. Backwards he surges, twisting his head away from Annatar’s hand, but chained and bound as he is, there is nowhere to retreat, to flee; oh so vividly he remembers how uncomfortably his jaw once stretched around the metal ring. His teeth creaked against the iron, and the barbs which adorned it pierced in his tongue painfully, holding it down. He had tossed and writhed against the invasion, but mercy was such an alien concept to the Maia, already then. He didn’t wanted this, none of it, but with such ruthless effort the Maia took his pleasure from his restrained mouth and body, gagged him with something far worse until bile and seed mingled at the back of his throat. Memories flood him, and in desperation he surges backwards, a futile effort, but so fervently he wishes to retreat, to recoil into his innards, but securely he has been chained to the irons above and beneath him. “Or perhaps I shall simply put your mouth to other use now. What do you say?” And for once glee is drowned by malicious mirth glimmering in the auric eyes. Upon comprehension of the words, Celebrimbor flinches away from the fingers that so affectionately run along his splattered lips; he will not be tricked again.

“Fuck you,” he spits at last, and bloody saliva splutters against the Maia’s face; the blow comes instantly, with such brute force that it makes him tremble against the heavy chains. Only then Annatar wipes the disgusting remains away from his face, cooing softly but not less dangerously, “Now, now, such obscenities from that pretty mouth of yours,” and with every word that slips from those perfect lips, the gag coming closer and closer towards his mouth.

But apparently the Maia has other ideas for him, taking a step backwards, encircling his dangling body as if he is a filthy piece of prey, ready to hunt, to mutilate, and carelessly the iron gag falls onto the floor. “Where are the rings?” Annatar hisses in such a sharp tone that Celebrimbor nearly flinches against the heavy chains, all the more when anger flares behind the Maia’s eyes, dangerous and gruesome.

Again, he spits onto the floor -- he has already lost count how often the Maia has asked the same question, over and over, backhanded him, kicked him — and worse –--but never has he revealed their hiding places, and he never will. He will take the secret to his lonely grave. None of his kin is left to mourn his death, his friends and fellow smiths long slain or rotting in the dungeons deep beneath the earth.

Golden threads of malicious magic weave beneath the ivory skin, and for seconds he loses himself in the alien display of power and stares.

 **“Where. Are. They.”** The Maia’s fingers knot into his filthy hair, sharply pulling at the strands, and the brute force makes him tremble against Annatar’s grip, but he remains silent, apart from the sigh of agony that slips past his lips. Every denial only results in another gruesome cruelty that springs so vividly from Annatar’s mind, another marring of his already marred body — but never would he betray those who warned him throughout the years, whose worries he dismissed with such nonchalance that the mere thought hurts him.

A cascade of tearful curses falls from Celebrimbor’s lips as he squirms futilely against the restraints, away from the Maia’s vile touch, away from the fingers he knows so well. He fights it — he fights it with every fiber of his being, but he cannot forget how he once touched him, touches him still, and plays his idle game with him, and disbelief strikes him when suddenly Annatar lets go of him, proudly striding across the room. He has no idea what exactly he is searching for, and not much can he see apart from the golden strands cascading down his shoulders, but then, deep inside he knows already; another device of cruelty, another display of how much he is at the Maia’s fickle will. With malicious laughter he turns around, and when Celebrimbor’s gaze falls onto the whip, and then onto his body, he _sees_ the anticipation and delight run through him, at the way his body grows tense, at the way the golden eyes glow like embers.

Like a wolf around its pray he circles him, dangerously and feral – once, twice before he comes to stand behind his back, and so tenderly he strokes down his sweating spine until Celebrimbor’s shoulders shudder in fear. “I think you do remember,” the Maia says, his voice low and calm against his neck, and indeed he does – how should he not? At first, he had been surprised at how effectively the thin piece of leather had split his skin, and soon he found his body arch and clench in response, all the more when the Maia’s sinuous lips had grazed along his shoulders, his neck, his ears, and soon pleasure and pain began to mingle in a most intoxicating mélange. Many years back his mind had drifted upon his words, a time when he trusted, admired, even **_loved_** the divine creature. Now all trust that ever existed between them is long extinguished.

Not for mutual pleasure the whip will sizzle through the air today, but for cruel torment.

With a heavy sigh Celebrimbor forces his eyes shut and prepares for the first blow and with such malice the Maia purrs behind him: “… Do you not think we should revive our nocturnal activities?” He would have spat right in his face if the Maia had the dignity to stand before him, but of course he does not; nevertheless, Celebrimbor spits blood-stained saliva onto the floor with such disgust that Annatar sneers behind him.

The first blow comes swiftly after, and Celebrimbor is caught by surprise as with such force it lashes down on his back, shoulders and arms. Once. Twice. Thrice. Overwhelmed by his own emotions, the Maia strikes him, and a few moments pass before Annatar manages to collect himself, and inwardly he laughs upon his little victory – not easily Annatar loses his mastered composure and indifference. The forth blow is entirely different, then: planned and outlined in the Maia’s corrupted mind, gentle almost in comparison and a tranquil juxtaposition to the violence the deed still holds.

Every section of his exposed skin he finds under attack, sharp stinging whacks that come with such horrid precision that it is as if the Maia has mapped every inch of his body in the past years; where it hurts most the blows are most vicious, and Celebrimbor bucks and writhes against the metal chains but demands tenaciously from himself not to utter a single word despite the sting of fire across his body. Tiny pearls of sweat began to form upon his brow, and his head rolled onto his chest. By his will alone he will suffer in silence no matter how long he must endure, and so he does; with gritted teeth and eyes tightly shut. Strike after strike falls, and where he counted at first the assaults upon his body, soon he has lost count, but still he marks time in the bite of the leather; softly the snow still falls outside, and the frosty embrace of winter air was is a jolting contrast to the burning pain and warm rivers of blood that trickled down his torso.

“Such a lovely shade of crimson.” The Maia’s words seem faint to his ears. Strangely detached from the realm of agony he finds himself caged within, and on its own accord his body trembles when the end of the whip is pushed between his buttocks, spreading them wider than they already where in his humiliating position. Sharply he inhales when the knob brushes against his entrance, and to the gods he has long forsaken he prays in that moment — for mercy, for something he could not quite fathom himself.

Swiftly, the knob is withdrawn from his cleft and the strings sizzle through the frigid air anew; the bitter cold air burns in his lungs and nose, against his mutilated skin, an icy wind howling outside that for once drowns out his cries of agony.

By now, he is certain, sprays of blood paint the stone walls around him in marvelous shades of dark crimson. He feels the warm trickle of blood over every inch of his skin, the scent of metal and blood in the air – it is a heady, numbing scent, a scent that easily can drown all sanity that is still alive within him; his eyes roll back in their sockets with desperation, and in silence a plea from those indifferent gods slips across his bruised lips, a plea for what exactly he does not even know himself. Was the one standing behind him not one of their kind, their servant and thrall? The thought alone makes him grimace against the relentless and unforgiving assault all the more, and pain blazes behind his closed eyelids.

The blood flows; it does not poor or trickle down his back — it flows like an endless waterfall, pooling in a sea of crimson around his feet. Frantic nausea overcomes him at the sudden realization, and he forces himself to open his eyes and falls silent, succumbing to the dreadful numbness and the dull ache of the whip that maddeningly sizzled through the cold air, mingling and entwining with his cries of agony.

When the Maia is finally done with him, his back feels as if no inch of healthy skin is left, trails of blood dripping into his cleft before the blood’s journey continues along his trembling thighs, and for a moment indeed he thinks Annatar has fulfilled his promise and would simply leave. Oh, so mistaken he is in his foolish assumption, and long before he can collect his thoughts, the Maia spins around, backhanding him with such strength that the iron wires creak and scream above him. Half his face is coated scarlet from a deep gash above his brow and momentarily his vision blurs. W _hat insanity this is_ , he thinks in disdain, when the blade returns to Annatar’s hand.

And the terror begins anew with such frantic perfection that the blood freezes in his veins, and within seconds, scarlet rivers begin to run down his creamy thighs.

In the end, consciousness nearly leaves him, and the Maia’s fey laughter echoes through his mind through a veil of numbness, becoming more distant with every shallow breath he takes, and there he hangs.

Today.

Tomorrow.

The day after.

A week. And then another.

Left to rot in his own filth, condemned to endless days of solitude and misery. Every once in a while the Maia’s dreadful minions pay him a visit, but only sparsely he even notices in all his misery, as mostly they leave him be, except for once. Close, so very close the filthy creature draws, his hand stretched out to touch his abused skin, and so hideously it licks along its lips then that disgust rises within the elf.

“Nahh, hands off I say,” the creature snarls to its companion with a glare, apparently higher in rank than the other, Celebrimbor thinks as the scenery unfolds before him, “The master’s plaything, his novel source of entertainment, is not made for your filthy hands to touch.”

Instantly, the hand is gone and the orc retreats with an almost melancholic mutter. “Sadly,” he says, and then they are gone.

 _‘The master’s plaything.’_  
  


_**‘** THE. MASTER’S. **PLAYTHING.’**_

Long indeed do the words ring through Celebrimbor’s drowsy mind.

****

* * *

**_Several days later_ **

Faintly Celebrimbor hears the low, familiar sound of the Maia’s footsteps sweep across the scattered tiles, and before he manages to gather his thoughts, slowly the door creaks open, letting a welcome breeze of fresh air fill his lungs. Such a sublime blur of desperate hope and brutal realization the nights have been, and how long he has lingered in the darkness he does not know. Pain commands his heart and soul, the silence chased away by ragged breaths and cries of anguish; and when it does not, he tries to recall the few happy moments he was granted in life: his friends, his fellow smiths, the dwarves he had befriended and admired for their craftsmanship.

Much has he accomplished, yet it has never seemed to be enough — he has always strived for perfection, and this has led to his downfall, he thinks bitterly, and then he dreams: of cries of anguish, and cries of lust, of the metallic taste of iron in his blood, of the salty taste of sweat and seed mingling with the blood that trickles down his face, dreams and reality merges into one, and more often than not, Celebrimbor deems himself on the brink of insanity. Despite the malicious treatment he had received those auric eyes flicker in his direction, and the Maia’s innocent smile coos him into such a false sense of security that he could scream, and nostalgia crashes down on him with such brutal force that he nearly flinches. Too overwhelming the Maia’s breath is against his ear, too demandingly their fingers are laced, the rays that fall from his eyes too golden, and weightless he floats in the blurred memories where pain and pleasure mingled, where his scream echoed disrupted the silent veil of darkness, the Maia’s lips kissing away droplets of blood with such vile tenderness, and between sleep and wakefulness he drifts he knows not for how long. Of marble pillars he dreams, glittery figures in vast robes made of the richest fabrics, faces so fair they almost seem too surreal to be alive; of voices that seem to speak of honey and wine, of safety and bliss, but he does not hear them with his ears — it is as they live in his mind — and with such grim desperation he wished to curl his body together into a ball, but he cannot for the iron chains keep him securely in place.

“Let us great the new morning, shall we?” Annatar asks, booming with such a good mood that makes bile gurgle deep in his innards; he waltzes energetically into the room, not bothering to close the door behind him. Swiftly, he takes a few steps into the room, getting just close enough to obtain a better look at the strangely unresponsive elf; defiance he had expected, hatred, a myriad of curses slipping from his blistered lips, and nearly it is as disappointment spreads across the Maia’s face for the briefest of moments. From above, the filtered sunlight cascades into the gloomy dungeon, and dust swirls in the air, shimmering like iridescent diamond dust, sparkling, glittering in such dazzlement that the Maia’s heart leaps in delight, and after freeing his gaze and mind from the petty dance of dust he sweeps through the room, and finally the elf’s voice croaks in response;

“Fuck you,” spits Celebrimbor at last, in all his misery, the exhausted breath rattling in his lungs, “Nothing will I tell you. Not today, nor tomorrow,” he says in such hateful determination that Annatar fails to stifle the laugh that slips across his lips. Rather easily Celebrimbor can imagine himself hanging there for the rest of his immortal life, and maybe deep inside he already senses his final fate. Often before he witnessed the Maia’s dreadful cruelty, the insanity that reigned behind those auric eyes – those glittering eyes that now stare down at him so hatefully. With another crooked laugh, the Maia takes a step backwards, and then another. What he sees as Annatar's gaze roams over Celebrimbor’s marred body makes his breath catch audibly. The hatred shining from his eyes easily turns to something else, something way more despicable and fearsome.

For many hours his hands are numb in the biting shackles around his wrists and his feet can no longer feel the unforgiving stone beneath them, the mocking kiss of cold against the tender skin. Upon the Maia’s words he forces himself to straighten further, and tries to wrap his exhausted body in a cape of defiance; not victorious Annatar shall be, even if it means sacrificing his life. With sadistic malice Annular strikes his face with a vicious backhand and the golden ring he wears upon his finger crushes against his jaw and tears the skin anew. What cruel mockery, Celebrimbor thinks, the visible manifestation of the Maia’s betrayal draws the first blood of the day, although he knows it shall not be the last.

Dangerously close the Maia steps then, looming over his humble form in the iron bonds. “Such nice manners you have, Tyelpe,” he coos, “but worry not: long have I given up to extract these little secrets from your miserable form, this is solely for my own delight,”

So hungrily he feels the Maia’s gaze roam over the large expanse of his marred skin, blistered and bruised – covered with crimson flowers blossoming upon the once ivory skin, shades of blue mingling with noxious yellow-brown and scarlet – a perfect canvas for him to use, so wonderfully brutalized by his own hands, and delightfully he allows his fingertips to brush against his chest, smearing fresh blood across the line of muscle beneath. Some of the welts have split and look bloody and raw. Celebrimbor’s eyes retain defiance, yet trembling he dotes upon the soft fingertips that run so carefully across his torso. Long has Annatar’s gaze settled on him – studying him with too much obscene interest.

“Oh, do you know how long I have dreamt to finish this to the last?” The Maia says, strangely detached from the world he was in, delving in times long forgotten, “Yet never was I allowed. Such a pity, don’t you agree? _‘The prisoner shall live’_ , the words have been, and you know well of whom I speak.” Momentarily, Annatar relishes in the elf’s flabbergasted expression, who now glances upwards, adorned in disdain and shock. Without much pressure, he trails a finger over the protruding ‘V’ of his hipbone Oddly, a visible shiver dances across the Maia’s lower arms when a healing wound breaks anew amid his fingertips, blood and mucus mingling to a dreadful blend upon his finger. Sinuously--savagely--he licks the corner of his lips in such delight and anticipation that bile rises.

Over many weeks the wounds have festered and spread; nasty scabs covering some of them, mainly the smaller cuts, whilst others became horrendously infected after endless hours of after-bleeding, puss and mucus constantly dripping from the noxious flesh. Such a decadent art it is, a unique piece only for him to see. For long moments the Maia revels in its obscene beauty. His sharp fingernail trails along the elf’s inner thigh, savoring the visible shiver his touch still manages to elicit, and with a little more pressure the ivory skin tears anew, and scarlet drops of blood began to escape the fresh wound, leaving a trail of blood behind. Slowly, Annatar runs his finger along the crimson stains, and he whines under his breath as coagulated blood peels off under the Maia’s sharp fingernails.

With dismay he notices how warm blood tickles down his thighs, leaving yet another crimson trail along his sullied body; for many weeks he was denied to cleanse himself, his skin by now unavoidably laced with the repulsive mixture of salt and musky sweat, blood, pus and feces, disgustingly reflecting the endless hours of torture and willful neglect. A shudder rushes through him when he thinks of poor Maitimo who endured endless years in Moringotto’s dark towers, nearly starved to death, so utterly marred in skin and body that many wondered how on earth he ever could continue living. Certainly, the gruesome Maia who now stands smirking right before him, had his sickening part in the marring of his uncle, and all too vividly, Celebrimbor sees repulsive visions of such cruelty floating through his mind.[2] Never had Maedhros spoken about his captivity – at least not with him, but then, he did not have to; obvious it was how deep his injuries ran. He does not know how the Black Foe blemished his uncle’s mind and body in Angamando’s darkest dungeons, but what he knows for certain is that Annatar tortures for despicable pleasure, strange satisfaction and filthy entertainment. With such grace he falls onto his knees before him, and almost obediently the Maia’s gaze is directed towards his eyes and hungrily his hands roam over his blood-stained thigh and pelvis.

The feeling of ecstasy is vibrating against his skin when the Maia bites into his thigh, teeth sharp like razors, tearing at the delicate flesh and he cries out in agony, a cry that is instantly rewarded by an encouraging whisper against his burning skin, words that are followed by the gentle slurp against the wound, the Maia apparently savoring the deliciousness of the scarlet-red fluid. For a long moment Annatar lingers on his knees before him, wholeheartedly indulging in the sickening deed of licking every droplet of blood away. After seconds he feels the need to avert his eyes from the dreadful sight that involuntarily evokes long forgotten memories of how the Maia had once knelt before him, licking his skin in the same mesmerizing manner, and momentarily, it is as if Annatar’s own mind is heavily occupied with past events, before he springs to his feet in a fury, backhanding him with such strength that it leaves the elf trembling against the iron shackles.

“Oh Tyelpe,” an icy grip upon his chin leaves him with no other choice but to follow the Maia’s motion, and when he fights futilely against the ruthless hold it is only more strongly enforced, and involuntarily blood drips into his mouth, “so pretty your body once was, so loveable – yet so despicable,” Fickle these notions perhaps are, but Annatar’s mind was always incomprehensible, thinking in spirals and ellipses, his thoughts always lingering in what was yet to come. Slowly then he runs his finger along Celebrimbor’s bottom lip, leaving a crimson trail behind, and soon the metallic taste of iron tickles the remains of his tongue. “So beautiful once you were, so beautiful you shall never be again – beauty is volatile, oh so brittle. What remains, what truly counts is art, art created with my own hands, with my own measures,” such frantic excitement rings in Annatar’s voice, and with such morbid fascination that flickers behind the golden eyes he stares down at him, carefully choosing between the options he has at hand. When the Maia finally let go of his face, he breathes in small, rapid pants, eyes wide and dilated in fearful apprehension; vaguely his mind processes the true meaning behind the nonchalantly whispered words, and truly he cannot mean it, can he? Wide his eyes grow when realization strikes him harder than Annatar’s hands could ever strike him, and with simmering resentment he trashes against the iron chains.

Long thick hair of the color of obsidian, framing a fair face with high cheekbones and prominent eyebrows, much alike his father’s and grandfather’s, taut muscles and strong arms from endless hours in the forge he had; all too easily he can imagine that he shall never be the same once the Maia has accomplished his art of cruelty, and suddenly his mouth goes dry, and strength slips from his abused body. With a heavy sigh his head rolls onto his shoulder and another howl of agony spills from his lips when another cruelty is bestowed upon his torn skin.

“Empty canvas, and nude skin, oh how wonderfully familiar, do you not think so?” Words of love and words of hatred he writes on his captive’s skin, words of malice with the elf’s own blood that gathers on the tips of his fingers, glooming in the twilight like a flashing beacon. Deeply then, he dips the finger on which the golden ring sits so mockingly into his wounds and draws the blood upwards inside of his thigh, and in its wake more viscous liquid spills from the raw flesh.

“You sick bastard,” Celebrimbor hisses weakly through gritted teeth and as quickly he has regained his voice, he loses it again as the Maia’s hand twists around the handle of the knife. “Am I?” So innocently he asks, an innocence that stands in high contrast to his gruesome deeds.

Celebrimbor does not dare to answer, and he wishes an embrace strong and fierce like the sea would envelope him, drown him for all eternity.

A cry fills the air like an owl’s screech, ugly and sharp, piercing the bone as the blade cuts deep into the sensitive skin of his pelvis, smearing the escaping blood all over, his blood-stained fingers trailing tantalizingly slowly towards his crotch where they remained for long, agonizing moments.

Soon blood drips to the floor as the wound opens wider, as another cut follows shortly after, mingling there with his own and others' filth from many weeks; only rudimentarily every now and then an orc removes the remains of the prisoners, half of the time cursing and beating them instead of following his orders. Wondrous at it seems, no orc or uruk had ever dare to raise their hands against him, an odd behavior which he could only explain by the Maia’s command with the prospect of severe punishment — or worse.

An agonizing shriek rips out of his throat when the sharp edge of the golden blade pierces through the junction of his neck and shoulder, the Maia’s iron claws holding him firmly in place, and deeper and yet deeper the blade slices through his marred skin. Blackness descends and fades into his vision as burning pain radiates through his very being – soaring, flaring, cursing. Heavily he struggles against the trembling of his legs that deny support to his quivering form any more. With every tiny inch that his knees sack downwards, the force on his numbed arms and limbs increases, pulling and tearing at the joints which hold his body together. He wishes to drown in his misery, to curl himself into a tiny ball somewhere nobody would ever find him, yet he cannot, condemned to suffer, condemned to withstand every cruelty the Maia’s corrupted mind elicit. The sound of gurgling blood deep inside his lungs escapes his throat and then another howl, and eerily the Maia laughs.

“Scream for me, Tyelpe.” Oh, he hates the way Annatar croons his name, breath tickling against his bruised skin. Yet his body seems to betray him, the tiny hairs on his neck standing on edge as memories long past resurface in his hazy mind, “What do I care about your whines and whims when art comes to existence? Scream for me as you have done in many a lonely night; in your sleep, upon waking – in your dreams,” Never was their relationship a healthy one, still for a while he desperately clung to the fugitive hopes that the Maia’s sweet lies roused within him. Throughout his entire life his character was shaped by an endless struggle of becoming as skilled as his father and grandfather was, but years of being told and shown that he was not worthy of any fatherly affection, only discipline through punishment, has certainly left its mark. His head falls against his chest, and there it lolls from one side to the other in sheer exhaustion, and his eyes roll in their sockets.

 

And exactly that the Maia took for as an advantage. He sowed lies exactly where he knew they would blossom and grow, cherishing his works, indulging in heated discussions and obscene filth late at night, deliberately he worshipped the Maia’s shrine of lies. The games they played late at night were unpredictable, and foolishly Celebrimbor thought their worship was the same, drawing each other out in denial, pain and pleasure mingling to reach heights unbeknownst to him. Games, which all too easily have become his insane prayer and the Maia’s absolution in his eyes.

“O, ever so often, the most vivid image of simply coiling the rope around your neck has caught my attention, to muffle your cries and your screams of anguish once I pulled it taut around your neck; – to simply **_end_** you,” with venom Annatar spits the words, punctuating them with such vile malice that Celebrimbor’s eyes grow wide in response. He swallows hard, and memories of said night flicker through his mind.

Deeply the words cut, more than the shining blade in the Maia’s hand ever could, and oh so foolishly he feels, so betrayed, so lost in a myriad of thoughts that rushes through him, and watery his eyes become.With such indifference he had waved away the warnings many had whispered in his ears, dismissed every suspicious thought – at the end severe suffering awaited him, awaits him still, and not a moment later, Annatar rises his voice again in confirmation: “Art shall be the sum of your agony, crimson blood blended with mucus,” and so softly he speaks, with such affection, the words dancing across his marred skin like a heavenly lover’s touch, cutting through the sound of the blood throbbing through his veins, and almost he can hear his gleeful smile accompanying every syllable that spills of the Maia’s lips.

And then he begins to play again – plays in the blood that so abundantly flows – his fingers trailing across his ivory skin, drawing circles and other geometrical forms across the bruised torso. Lightly he touches Celebrimbor, affectionately almost, mimicking   softly whispered words, and every touch leaves a dreadful shiver in its wake; so abused his entire body was that even the brush of a feather would make him scream. For long moments he creates an image of war on his chest, abstract fractals blossoming anew over healing wounds and coagulated blood; with exhaustion and pain his eyes then itch, and he jerks within the restraints when the Maia took a step closer, bending his head to trace the length of the newest cut with the flat of his tongue.

In response, Celebrimbor whines. Such display of affectionate intimacy, although in the most morbid sense, cuts deeper than the blade ever could; and so sensually, sinuously Annatar traces the path the blood took, sweeping over the mutilated nipples, and his whine of pain mingles with something darker. However, quickly it dies into a viscous gurgle when Annatar fastened his teeth on the raw skin, gnashing and pulling on the flesh until blood floods his mouth, and so sensually he licks his lips as if his body fluids are a most exquisite vintage in these halls. The endless river of crimson ebbs and rises, and Celebrimbor swallows hard, when blood wells up and drips down the Maia’s hands. With such mastery he allows the blade to sink into the flesh anew, slow, so painstakingly slow the knife digs into his pale skin until he screams out in all his anguish and when his cry finally ebbs, the Maia gracefully raises to his feet again.

“Blind desperation has led to your downfall,” icily he says, his voice devoid of the smallest glimpse of tenderness and devotion, which had left him tongue-tied every so often, aiming for the tiniest bit of affection and acceptance. Even now, as Annatar stands right before him as his tormentor, his own blood smeared across his lips, his entire face. For seconds he stupidity relishes in Annatar's beauty, and wished he would end him at the same time; what was left for him on this world of cruelty?

“Did you truly think you could betray me, _Celebrimbor_?”

Oh, he hates how the Maia punctuates the syllables, so tenderly, so softly as if they would rest amid silken blankets; the word alone makes bile boil in his stomach and slowly the acrid fluid rises towards his mouth, and he almost gags. Right into the Maia’s face he wishes to spit, but his mouth is dry, as his entire body feels. He wishes to scream in dismay, but silent he remains, caught in a maelstrom of thoughts, which fight in his drowsy mind.

He closes his eyes and sinks. No, he does not want this, possibly he never wanted any of it – but then, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he lusted shamelessly after the otherworldly creature? Hadn’t his gaze lingered moments too long on his perfectly shaped backside whilst he was bent over the working bench in their forge? Hadn’t the most improper yet so strangely devouring thoughts flooded his mind? Sometimes, rarely though, he had liked to pretend it was friendship—simple and innocent—often among others, telling them it was all very simple – a mutual friendship fed by trust and respect, a repeated lie he told until he partly believed itself, when their relationship had evolved into unhealthy and insane heights.

 _‘No,’_ he wishes to scream but apart from a sigh of frustration nothing ever came across his blistered lips. ‘ _With all my heart I hate you, despise you’_ and truly he does, but oh so lovingly he touches him, caresses him as he has yearned for so many a night, fingertips soft like the gentle breeze of spring ghost over his cock, and much to his own consternation it jolts upon the barest of touch, and he hates himself for it. The thought alone that the Maia still wished to touch these parts of him — savagely, intimately — sets something ablaze within him, and he hates himself all the more for it! A dreadful act of violation and brutal humiliation this is – nothing more and nothing less, and still he relishes the delicate touch which is bestowed upon him as longing bubbles up amidst all the pain.

 _‘Stop it!’_ – the words lay on his tongue but never spill across his lips, and instead of forcing them shut he parts them slightly when the Maia’s blood-stained finger demands entrance whilst he is still palming him. The metallic taste of blood tickles his tongue, and where disgust should immediately overwhelm him, it does not. Instead, as if he was not himself anymore, he closes his mouth and sucks the finger free from his own fluids with such mocking insanity as he loses himself in the sickening caress.  

A vicious slap across his face brings him back to reality, and he howls in agony.

“So beautiful you are in all your anguish,” true admiration rings in the Maia’s words, although he only admired his own depraved work of art. With precision scabs come off the old wounds under Annatar’s fingertips’ assault, old wounds that deliberately refused to heal but festered instead, sup and wound-water springing free and trickling down his chest, his crotch, smeared all over by the Maia’s hands and tongue – and with lunacy he laughs, eyes alight with such fascination, before he slaps him right across the face again, observing his captive’s tolerance.

Briefly, Celebrimbor’s head snaps upwards, but soon falls down again from sheer exhaustion He cannot remember when he had slept. Had it been days? Weeks? Months? Time became a blur in the dim twilight deep down beneath the earth where he was held captive by the one he had once called friend, the one who will end his life at the end of days – of that he is certain already. It feels like the stone will swallow him up when his gaze meets the treacherous bulge in the Maia’s leggings, who apparently took such glorious delight in tormenting him.

“Annatar,” whimpers Celebrimbor, and the words are a prayer, a curse and a futile plea for salvation at the same time, and he curses himself for allowing the words to slip past his blistered lips.

“Shall I stop?” The Maia asked with such innocence that the remaining blood seems to freeze in his veins, his lips too close against his marred skin, his breath dancing across the open cuts, leaving a horrid shiver in its wake. “Or shall I complete my magnificent piece of art?” His burning gaze roams over every inch of his stained body as if he is the most precious tapestries in all of Arda, the Maia’s own sickening creation – and indeed pride and glee alike show in his eyes.

He would not beg, would never beg, knowing all too well that every word will be spoken in vain – delightfully the Maia would laugh, and then he would resume his devious craftsmanship.

“Continue,” Celebrimbor says weakly in a voice he barely recognized as his own, his throat dry from the simple lack of water, the flesh corroded from the droplets of fuming acid Annatar forced down his throat on their previous encounter. The end is near, and thankfully he would embrace it at the end, with relief but before he would finally answer Námo’s call towards those distant shores, long hours of cruelty were yet to come, and with every hour that trickled by his heartbeat would grow weak and weaker still, exhaustion and malnutrition already demanding its toll from his body. A burning spreads through his chest and the breath he doesn’t know he was holding leaves his lungs when his skin is pierced anew.

Beautiful, they once called him, dark as the starless night so much like his father in appearance—the father he admired so much, the one who never truly was a father, only his creator -- tall with broad shoulders and strong arms, well-defined from countless years in the forge, steeled from battle, powerful legs that now are atrophied from starvation, covered in blood and filth.

“As you wish,” the Maia whispers gleefully, before he savagely kicks his captive in the stomach and in the same move backhands him with such vicious assault that teeth roll across the marble floor and fey laughter rings in his mind. Swiftly, Annatar steps backwards, and gracefully with blood-stained fingers he undoes the lacings of his black robes before the richly ornate garment with its golden threads falls carelessly into the pool of crimson. Taut muscles flex beneath the pale skin, so perfectly aligned and defined that for seconds Celebrimbor stares in foolish apprehension.

“Oh Tyelpe,” he coos as he licks along the crimson trails trickling down from the elf’s lips, mockery accompanying every word that slips past the thin lips, “so proud, so ravishingly beautiful in your suffering.” Tender hands run along his sides, leaving freckles of blood and sup in their wake. “So fragile, so maddeningly begging for my protection and advice – too blind to see beneath the filth of lies.”

“Curs…” the words quickly die into a vicious gurgle when both of the Maia’s hands envelope his throat and with such hatred he squeezes the raw flesh between his fingers until blackness springs into Celebrimbor’s vision and his world goes blank.

“Hush now, be silent,” Honeyed words are dripping from the Maia’s lips, rasping so shamefully and perverted against his ear – so close, so maddeningly close, the stench of blood and feces mingling with the Maia’s own, characteristic one—the scent of molten gold and black powder, the scent which seems to be etched into his very mind —accompanied by fingertips he once had wished to caress every inch of his skin until he would writhe against the velvet cushions.

Sharp nails scratch over the old wounds which often were broken open anew, fingertips dip deep inside the festering wound before they smear blood over his shoulder blades, his arms, his neck and his face. Shortly after, he feels the Maia’s naked chest pressed against his blood-stained back. Celebrimbor goes still, swallowing down the cries of anguish as he almost doesn’t dare to breathe anymore. So close, so maddeningly close he is, dangerously so, and the muscle on the side of his throat flexes in response. Obscenely raw patterns are followed with his fingertips, and then, hedonistically and sickeningly the Maia’s tongue trails along the half-healed lacerations on his shoulder and simultaneously he feels sharp teeth pull along it. Over the curves of his shoulder blades Annatar’s lips brush, down the arch of his lower back whilst his fingers idly play with the cuts he had left on his chest; after moments, when the blood would finally start to coagulate he dips his fingers deep inside the cuts and tears them open anew until crimson trails freely flowed.

So sick, so utterly sick this is, and an orc’s vile words ring in Celebrimbor’s ears, _‘The Master’s plaything. His novel source of entertainment,"_ This is what the Maia does. With such frantic excitement he relishes in the perverted game he plays, bathes in his captive fluids--because that is exactly what he does—as he draws pictures on his canvas in yellow and crimson. So close he is, the entire length of his body pressed against his own, their skin glued together by the sticky fluids. Warmth erupts from the Maia’s skin, envelops him and caresses him like Annatar’s fingers, which idly wander along his raw torso, over his groin, his chest and further upwards where they remain just a moment to break the skin anew. A weak howl of agony spills over Celebrimbor’s parted mouth. Over his pale cheeks the blood stained fingertips brush so softly, over his blistered lips and closed eyes--and with disgust he notices how the Maia’s breath becomes short, ragged, utmost filthy--and oh how the unmistakable scent of arousal mingles with the coppery tang of blood.

How he wishes he were dead already, Celebrimbor thinks with little hope, when the Maia takes his perverted pleasure from his blood, from his marred body. Pale hands delve deeply into severed skin, into muscles and arteries, forcing a new flood of crimson to erupt. No strength he has left, and thus is caught in the sea of numbness into which he sinks. Faintly then, strangely detached from his if his mind is free from his body, he notices how hard the Maia’s flesh has become against his back, and oh so vilely Annatar’s teeth graze along his ears until blood trickles from his lobe, how ragged breath mingles with his pants of anguish and the Maia’s speech that he cannot fathom to understand. For seconds, his eye-lids flicker open and he sees the once pale hands are covered in an obscene blend of blood-stained saliva, mucus and worse now, every color his abused body has to offer mingles in obscenity and mockery, and oh how Celebrimbor wishes he had forced his eyes to remain shut when the hands smear floods of crimson over his face and hair. Obscene moans and pants of corrupted pleasure drip from the Maia’s blood-stained lips and with a feral growl he reaches the climax of his bloody pleasures, tightly pressed against Celebrimbor's weak body, at the sight of severed skin and broken bones, the worst punishment of all.

For a while Annatar lingers in the vile embrace, kissing his raw skin so tenderly, so intimately, like he has done so often in the darkness of the night, and rekindles the dreams of love and happiness that so vividly live in Celebrimbor’s heart each time anew. “For all eternity my art shall be, yet nobody will ever understand. In all their ignorance they cannot see the beauty of flesh and blood; soon, oh soon, new colors will spring to life from your body, from your bones,” coos the Maia in the aftermath of his orgasm and each word leaves a horrid shiver in its wake and, involuntarily, Celebrimbor’s weak body trembles against the iron chains. It is as if the motion stirs Annatar from his blissful reveries.

With a piercing shriek he swiftly steps away from him, wanders around him until he comes to stand right before him with such a victorious smirk that robs the elf off his shallow breath. Hard Celebrimbor swallows and his innards cringe when his dull eyes came to rest on the disgusting and absolutely sick sight the Maia presents. His golden hair a filthy mess adorned with scraps of skin and coagulated blood clotting through the tangled strands, his pale face and lips covered with blood - Celebrimbor's own blood - his chest smeared over and over with crimson trails, and on his pelvis, amidst the abundance of red, the innocent white of his climax mingles.

For many hours, he had endured, had fought against the disdain which reigned within him, but the sickening display of the Maia’s bloody pleasures was more than he could bear in his weak state of mind. Bile erupts from his innards and finds its way upwards, leaving an acidic taste in its wake when the sour liquid finally splutters onto the floor.

A bottle holding an entirely colorless liquid was raised to meet his eyes once he collected himself, and Celebrimbor could not explain where it was hidden for so long. “Any idea what this might be?” Annatar asks cynically, and Celebrimbor feels the throb of his heart in his throat; once already he had made acquaintance with the Maia’s alchemistic discoveries. Disdain and fear seem to overwhelm him. In the dim light the Maia’s eyes are like shadows, unblinking and focusing on his abused face, and impossible it is to read the emotions that flicker through them and he simply shakes his head in weak response.

“No idea, truly? Such a disappointment you are, _Celebrimbor_ , but not new this is to me--it is a truly marvelous invention,” Annatar begins to explain, his voice accompanied by a fey and malicious laughter, a laughter Celebrimbor knew all too well by now, and all remaining strength it takes for him not to flinch, “discovered deep down in the salt-rich mines centuries ago, a simple reaction turns the salt into a divine compound,” Carefully, he opened the bottle and let a few droplets tickle down the elf’s spine, and much to his surprise – apart from the usual pain – he did not feel anything, "almost like water it looks, and it does not destroy your soft skin nor ruin my fine work, but deep inside your body it will begin its malicious works ever so slowly yet unstoppable, and soon your pain will become unbearable.”[3]

“… unless …” so maddeningly the Maia’s fingertips brush against his scarlet cheek, so soft, so agonizingly affectionate and for seconds Celebrimbor loses himself in the tenacious caress, before the sound of scattering glass makes his eyes snap open, “oh never mind, I seemed to have dropped it.” He frowns in agony upon the liquid that mingles with the crimson sea of blood, and deliberately he lets his eye-lids fall close, letting darkness descent, embrace him, save him.[4]

Oh what cruelty this seems like, but then did he still desire to live? What for, and to whatever end? The end that displays itself so clearly before his corrupted mind? Long have his blue eyes lost all sparkle, all mirth, had become dull and lifeless in the evanescent darkness. Oh, wouldn’t it be easier to succumb to the distant calls from the West, to follow the whispered invitation to those Halls of everlasting twilight where all souls go at their very end? On fragile strings his hroä and feä are still connected, but weaker and weaker the connections had become over the many days he had suffered, his torso littered in cuts and bruises. In the darkest hours of the night when blackness drowned all light he heard them call; his fallen father, his fallen uncles, his mother even, whispering so softly against his ear when dreams and waking converged. He was divorced from his physical senses by pain, floating in a sea of numbness.

“Curse you,” he spits at last with all strength that remains within him, glaring at him with hatred and bewilderment alike, and such a delighted laugh from the Maia’s lips his dull words pull. With mockery Annatar shakes his head and takes a step backwards to admire his artwork once more and it almost seems as if he nods in morbid approval.

“With every breath you take, my picture begins to live — such a pity not many breaths are left, I fear,” The laugh which follows is insane, as if he has lost all his wits and is strangely detached at the same time, as if the voice speaks from far away to him, but clearly the Maia stands right behind him; and when the laughter ceases, the foreboding swoosh of the whip soars through the air, hitting against the raw skin of his back.

Relentless the assault with the whip is – once – twice – thrice – pause – and then again, until he loses count of the strokes, seeing his own blood pool beneath his feet and pain blazing behind his closed eyes. By now he knows when the strokes fall – the sizzle of air shortly beforehand announces another blow, and then another, drawing rivers of blood from his raw flesh. From his shoulders it meanders downwards, trickling along his spine, pooling between the cleft of his buttocks before the river springs alive upon his thigh anew.

The last blow comes swiftly and violently, cracking his raw skin open. And then a heavy silence falls between them, an odd tranquility, only interrupted by his sharp breaths that startle him more than any cruelty ever could—at least the Maia’s gruesome deeds were, at least to some extent, predictable - whereas the silence is not.

“For a while longer you shall live,” the Maia croons as he pushes a small capsule past his lips, forcing it between his remaining teeth, and with such cruelty he forces his jaw shut until the capsule breaks and a bitter-sweet viscous liquid tickles the remains of his tongue. The last of strength within him he tries to summon, struggling violently against the hold the Maia still has on his jaw, but all he does is condemn himself to failure as the grip only intensifies. “Shhh, swallow and all shall be well, Tyelpe.” Oh how he hates him saying his name in such a loving manner, and desperately he wishes to spit right in his mockingly innocent visage, but his bodily reflexes betray him after a while, forcing the bitter fluid down his throat.

“Good boy,” he hears him whisper with such affection that bile erupts from his guts, before the Maia’s voice drowns in malicious laugh that for many hours will ring in his ears.  

The iron door behind him falls closed with a heavy bang, accompanied by the Maia’s fey laughter, and for the first time since his father’s death in Doriath, tears well up in his drowsy eyes. For many an hour he weeps heavily in all his misery and agony about being forced to stay alive and endure whatever cruelty lies in the Maia’s corrupted mind.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [1] If anybody should be interested what it is that Annatar uses to torture poor Celebrimbor – it is butyllithium (tert-butyllithium), and it’s such nasty stuff to work with because it behaves exactly as described, including the self-ignition upon contact with air/humidity and it leaves severe burns on the skin; [video pyrophoric liquids](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oH5Bs6daVs4)  
> [2] Based on the quote: "In all the deeds of Melkor the Morgoth upon Arda, in his vast works and in the deceits of his cunning, Sauron had a part." (The Silmarillion - Valaquenta)  
> [3] It is hydrofluoric acid (HF), also VERY nasty stuff.  
> [4] The respective antidote (calcium gluconate) against HF, is usually a gel which needs to be applied onto the skin after contact with HF; however, I liked the idea of a capsule better, pardon me for taking this liberty.


End file.
